


The Twenty-First of July

by BorkMork



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Roy Needs To Take Care of Himself Dammit, Sad Man and Drinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:14:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26329234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BorkMork/pseuds/BorkMork
Summary: Roy Mustang had burned through his paperwork. Usually, he would find the idea of signing papers tedious, but on this particular day, the general didn't mind the ache of his hands or how time slogged to nothing. It was better than thinking because thinking would bring him closer to ruin.For today was the twenty-first of July.-Roy Mustang on the anniversary of his best friend's death.
Relationships: Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 15
Kudos: 80





	The Twenty-First of July

**Author's Note:**

> Massive kudos to my beta-reader [NewLense](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NewLense/pseuds/NewLense), who honed and sharpened this fic to its final product!

Roy Mustang had burned through his paperwork. Usually, he would find the idea of signing papers tedious, but on this particular day, the general didn't mind the ache of his hands or how time slogged to nothing. It was better than thinking because thinking would bring him closer to ruin.

For today was the twenty-first of July. 

The day where his telephone remained quiet and his steps hollowed when he passed the Investigations Office day-in-day-out. It didn't have to hurt. He knew it did, but he indulged in the documents, stamped them off in the blink of an eye, and drowned in the words. He had to focus on the priorities, the necessary signatures on the dotted lines. As Brigadier General Mustang, he was supposed to be diligent, focused instead of distracted. He had a duty to focus on, people to protect.

But he was human. Charming and sharp came with repression, thinking ahead forced him to see the world like chess. Showing aggression at a certain date would get noticed by his peers; showing affection without care to his image seeded weapons for the opposition. After what happened with Envy, he preferred his emotions being locked down but given a place to go.

So when he left the graveyard, fumbling with his wallet and his black coat, he walked down the route to his favorite bar. The one on the right, with the friendly women and the bug-eyed bar owner, who always looked away and never questioned why a high-standing officer would be in a place like this. No one had to ask. No one had to see the drink exchange, the cens in his palm, and the way he fumbled with the radio node in his stupor, nails digging into his clasped hands when he listened.

Roy addressed the waitresses like usual (frowning at how they giggled and shook their heads), gave them tips for the beer shots, then laid his head down onto the counter. The music was frying his brain with all those violins and fiddles that shrieked in staccatos. He hummed the opera lady’s parts under his breath, jabbing his nail into the bar’s softwood as the minutes slipped.

After a while, he pulled his head up from the counter. The room was still intact. No pirouettes or vertigo, thank God. He could get back home if he had the guts to lift his legs. Roy laughed weakly to himself.

 _Man, Hughes. Who knew that things could get like this?_

He had plans to meet Lieutenant Colonel Miles over Ishval in a few days, and here he was, ready to fall asleep on the floor after a few shots of alcohol. That wouldn’t do.

Roy groaned and rubbed at his forehead, pushing the shot glasses to the side. They clinked together in unison. Almost charming to listen to if his head didn’t feel like garbage, legs mush on the bar stool stretcher. He rummaged through his pockets, only to find nothing but his wallet. Roy grimaced, scrunching his nose. Stupid. He didn’t come here by car. He wouldn't be able to walk home unless he wanted to get manhandled by a criminal. And he didn’t want to give the workers a hassle if that ever happened.

His adjutant, however, knew where his car was. 

He leaned over the bar. The bartender was busy with some cups, filling them to the brim with beer.

“Tony,” Roy said.

The man raised an eyebrow at him, expression crooked as ever.

"I'm gonna get a phone. Save my seat, would ya’?"

The bartender exhaled through his nose. "Will do. Don't be out too long."

Roy pushed a few cens to Tony’s direction. He then put on a grin, trying to push his body out of the stool. "I won't."

Roy lifted himself and dawdled over to the exit, jacket in hand. The cold outside chilled him to goosebumps, moon nowhere in sight, covered by thick rolling clouds that struck his nose with a doggish scent. The metallic zing of the air left him to grumble too. Rain always was a sore spot to be in.

Roy locked himself into the phone booth. A few coins out of his pocket, he dialed the number he had seared into his memory and waited for the operators to pull him through to a familiar connection.

"Hello?"

"Hawkeye, hello!" He swallowed a burp, trying to smooth out his voice. They weren’t watched anymore, but that didn’t mean he was going to abandon his formality. "It's me, the general."

"You're drunk."

Roy looked at his watch. It was almost eight. "Is it obvious?"

"From previous experiences, it's not hard to tell if you are." He fiddled with the cord and looked around the telephone booth with bleary eyes. The muffled thunder was getting frequent. "You usually get drunk when your laziness has caught up to you."

"Oh, you're pretty smart, captain. Well," he grinned to himself. "I already know you’re smart."

"Same bar?"

"Yeah. The one at—"

"I'll be there in twenty minutes. Don't do anything rash, sir."

Roy blinked. "I won't." 

He hung up, returning to the bar as the rain tickled his neck.

He waited for her. His fingers fumbled with the shot glasses, pushing and rolling them on their ridges like they were coins. Didn’t matter if Tony chided him. He'd rather pass the time than care about the damages (little though they were: he was still careful. As a drunk man could be). 

It didn’t take long for him to hear the barbell. Riza had furled her umbrella when she walked in and had nodded toward Tony in greeting. "Sorry for the trouble. I'll take him off your hands."

"Just keep him safe, ma'am. He drank five shots."

The expression on her face was hard to tell. "How long has he been here?"

Roy stood up from his seat when the bartender answered with "Three hours". The water the bartender gave him helped curb the buzz at his chest.

He tried at a salute. “Captain, it’s nice to see you.”

"Are you able to walk, sir?"

His knees buckled. A quick misstep, nothing he couldn’t handle. “I’m fine. Let me take your umbrella.”

He didn’t take her umbrella. His adjutant spoke a quick “thank you” to the staff before she motioned him out into the night. The sting of the cold hit him. The wind had increased within the past hour — or was it more? Roy couldn’t tell — and she was quick to shield him from the slanted downpour, the warm bar lights went with the shut of the door.

“Captain.” A hiccup.

"Be careful with your steps, sir."

Riza gripped his shoulders. Her hold was gentle, the only indicator of warmth against the biting climate.

“My house,” he said, leaning against her shoulder. “I've my keys.”

With careful steps, Roy found himself ushered into the passenger’s seat. He waited, tuned to the outside trickle of water, until his captain unlocked the door and got inside. When the car started up, Roy nestled against the cold window, not able to speak another word. The roads shifted by, and he could see the familiar signs visible under the lamplight. There was Elias Avenue, the entrance to Markt, market stands covered in tarpaulin. He saw people he had no names for. They probably thought the same thing at that lone car driving down the lane — a man and a woman driving home after a long day.

He noted the businesses, the housing, the odd neighborhood roads. Roy had walked here numerous times, and even through blurred vision he recognized how close they were. There was the bakery run by the elderly couple down the way. The chained-up car lot he'd sometimes climb into for peace and quiet. That alleyway where the kids stuck their tongues out and played ball with him out-of-uniform. The broken lamppost where the dogs barked.

“We’re here, sir.”

Roy blinked. They weren’t in front of the house but wedged cleanly inside an alleyway.

“Take the umbrella," she said. "I’ll meet you in twenty minutes.”

He unbuckled himself. He would go home first, then she would follow suit by entering the backdoor. That’s how they had always initiated private talk: with the proper timing, care, and copied rent keys.

Roy grabbed the offered parasol, stuffing it under his arm. “Stay safe.” Before he opened the door, he stopped. He looked at her for a second, face grave as could be. “That’s an order.”

The light chuckle from her made him grin. “I wouldn’t be your adjutant if I wasn't able to fulfill such a promise.”

With a nod, he closed the door behind him and started his way out the alley.

* * *

The rent home was a one-story, walls pale like the day they were built, and Roy liked it that way. He’d had to do the carpeting himself, had thickened the walls with alchemy, but any luxuries were left out of the question. Why use all of his money on an extravagant house when his subordinates slept in apartments or dorms? So he took the cheapest building he could find, squished between Central's weird line of suburbia and the beginnings of urban thrall.

The building was clean, simple. No garage to store his car, or a backyard to be proud of, but that was the good part about all this. The brevity of his packing removed any type of hassle. He only had the barest of essentials — no distractions for the work that mattered.

Roy waited for her. Still buzzed, he took to drinking water from the tap faucet, hoping he could gain some clarity when the captain came. He was glad to know that his thoughts were still intact, even when he bumped into the dresser and cursed at his pained knees.

He perked up when he heard a gentle thump against the back door.

Roy stalked up to the door. Lifting his hand, he rapped his knuckles two times against the wood.

He waited in silence.

Two knocks came back.

Roy opened the door and was welcomed by the sight of the captain. She was dressed out of her uniform and into a simple white coat, a grey umbrella in-hand, her prior clothes folded in the other.

“Oh, Elizabeth.” His voice came out hushed, but the playfulness seeped through as he leaned on the jamb.

“Hello Roy, it’s nice to see you again.” The timbre of her voice made him grin even more. “Just wanted to drop by with some flowers. I forgot to give them to you when you visited the shop.” 

Of course, she didn’t have a bouquet in her hands, only his car keys. He motioned her inside and closed the door behind them, watching her look around the building with keen glances. He kept up his smile.

“Quite forgetful today, inviting yourself to my home at such a late hour,” he said, taking the coat from her shoulders. “Are you perhaps drunk?”

“Maybe. You seem drunk yourself. You didn't bother the poor bar workers, did you?"

"Not at all. Why would I bother lovely, hard-working women when they're just doing their jobs?"

Riza scoffed, dropping her shoes at the door. She appeared to be looking for something.

“Keybowl’s in the kitchen.”

“Ah, thank you.”

Roy watched her walk to the other room. He admired the grace she had, how she passed through doors soundlessly like a deer. It reminded him of the young girl he had met in the countryside, swift and elegant even with the dead rabbits in her hand, a rifle strapped to her back.

The storm rumbled on outside. It was close, muffled by the walls, but the temperature was colder, chillier to the skin, as Roy placed her coat on the kitchen table.

When he came back to the living room, he found Riza slouched on the couch, shoulders eased, eyebags more prominent in the lamplight. She looked up at him, "Weather should let up in a few hours."

"Were you planning to drive back?"

"It would be easier if you dropped me off tomorrow. I wouldn't risk hydroplaning in these conditions."

Roy took his coat off. With the amount of downpour outside, it would be better to stay over until the weather blew over. "Alright. You can take my bed then for tonight."

She followed behind him, shaking her head. "That won't be necessary. I'll sleep on the couch."

"Hawkeye, I insist."

"I don't plan to have you sleep on the couch in your own home."

"But as your superior officer, I'd rather you have my bed."

Riza stared at him, almost wistfully, before speaking out again. "Then a compromise is needed. We might as well share the same bed."

Roy blinked at her, almost surprised. The buzz was going away, but there was something different about all this, like he was being placed once again into unfamiliar depths. "I...that can be arranged." 

She smiled at him. They were stubborn people; it was an observation both knew to be true throughout their years of companionship, and it never stopped being so.

“And general.”

“Yes?”

“You’re soaked. Take a shower.”

“Right. I’ll go do that.”

And so the night went on. They poured tea between them, drank in the pleasant quiet, and listened to the radio at low volume, attentive to the violins and news humming out in blurbs. Sometimes the house retained its loneliness, sometimes it didn't — and tonight was one of those nights. Riza had melded into the domesticity, and Roy was more than fine with it.

Afterward, when the dishes were cleaned and the radio was turned off, Roy waited for her on the edge of his mattress. The pitter-patter of the rain accompanied him, leaving him dazed as he stared at the walls. He didn’t hate rain; water was part of a meteorological system that should be respected and feared, researched, and accounted for. But the sounds had haunted him for months. They would lull him to numbness, of vacant dreams if he were lucky. Sometimes the crash of thunder struck him when his mind was most placid, and any case of sleeping would be tossed away. 

Powerless. That was what the rain told him: he was useless to the elements, of the unpredictable nature of the world. For all his qualities, Roy Mustang wasn’t the kind to be forgetful to this lesson, and the clock above the door reminded him every second.

11:46 p.m.

Three more minutes.

One-hundred-eighty seconds.

Roy breathed through his nose and massaged at his temple. The aches hadn't let up despite the slow receding of the alcohol. He listened to the faint trickle of water, the emptiness of his quarters, the stacks of cornered books, the dryer rack’s dishes, the table’s folders, all for the sake of focus. But the room felt unnatural, out of sync.

Riza walked through the door with the second round of tea. He put on a smile, massaging the side of his head. "This headache is killing me, Hawkeye. Remind me to never drink again."

"I'll make sure."

The response surprised him. It wasn’t the softer tone he was used to hearing in private. The words were stifled, restrained, as if she was thinking carefully. And judging the way she looked at him, he knew it had to be about him.

"Have I done something wrong?"

"Hm." She stared at her hands, looking forlorn at the contents of her cup. "I've been meaning to bring the matter up, actually."

“What’s stopping you?”

“Patience. For the right time.” Riza put the cup down at the bedside with a soft clink. Roy tensed a little. "I've noticed a pattern with you today, and to an extent, over the years."

Roy kept eye contact. There was a pressure in his chest. Growing anxiety that he wished would go away. He kept his arms still, however, and steadied his breathing. "Am I that obvious?"

"You limit your drinking. Being inebriated doesn't serve a purpose unless you require liquid courage." Riza held his gaze. "Or a lack of a guilty conscience."

Roy clasped his hands together. His nails dug softly into his skin, forehead wrinkled in concentration. He wished for the alcohol to come back. His contact loosened from her, looking off to some unforeseen corner of the room.

“You’ve got me like an open book.” He flinched at his brittle voice. “There’s a reason why I made you my adjutant.”

"You're not to blame for his death, Roy."

The sentence was sudden. It punctured him like a knife.

"I've seen you drink when you want release. Treating yourself like a machine won't make you a better man, nor a better leader." Something steeled in her tone, and he grimaced more. "We promised accountability. I can't stand by and let this self-flagellation continue."

Roy held his breath. She knew him too well, enough to see through his inebriated stare that he was playing the fool. For someone who had battled inner demons all his life, he asked himself why. Why couldn’t he move on?

He chuckled — weak, and pathetic. "Then what do you suggest I do?"

"I would suggest for you to cry."

Everything went cold. The lights in the hallway, the incessant taps against the window, the throb in his temple. All of it couldn't compare to the way she stared at him — with a determination that stripped him down to nothing despite the clothes weighed on his back, of every piece of fabric that labeled him inhuman — out of the pained duty she promised to keep. That stare told him everything he needed to know.

She wasn’t going to leave this room.

"Riza…" Roy did not recognize his voice. He felt almost drenched to the soul.

The fire in her eyes receded. She walked toward him. Her expression remained tender, soft in the glaze of the moonlight. She treaded carefully, for she saw through to his unspoken worry, at how pale he looked in the disguise of the dark.

He scooted over and allowed her to sit next to him. He glared down at his lap. Exhaustion took over; he didn't know whether to blame the liquor or the anxiety eating at his chest, or the fact he was looking for something to say. Something that would stop the ache.

It was hard to swallow, hard to lick at his dry lips. There was no need to play up the inebriation with her. She knew too well, and lying further was insulting her.

"Here.”

A water bottle was in the captain's hand. He took it, and slowly twisted off the cap. His knuckles were white, trembling.

"You're dehydrated. Alcohol shouldn't be a water replacement."

"I know." He winced.

"Then what's stopping you?" There it was, that careful and considerate voice she took. He didn't know whether to love or despise it. "Or do you expect me to read your mind all the time?"

No. They had spoken in silence before: with taps, stares, and smiles. They acknowledged each other's fears, scrutinized sacrifices, and listened to their ideations. What they had together would've had scared them when they were children — when they were still innocent on how the world worked, of how the system could be cruel and manipulative to people who cared too much. Behind every soundless exchange was a history of reassured compromises, each one solidly made to keep the other on their feet.

So when Riza gazed at him, with that same vulnerability, a heaviness started in his chest. He exhaled, gritting his teeth.

"You know me too well," he said.

"I blame the years between us."

He laughed bitterly. Her hands tapped against his knuckles, keeping to their untold cipher — the code that asked him if he was okay...no, that asked him if he wanted to let her in.

Roy swallowed the lump in his throat. His breath was escaping him, but he was quick to nod, to tell her yes.

Her arms held him. Away from the harm, away from the cold, pressing him into a warmth that reminded him of so many things. Of Ishvalan sand, to the blood in his hands, the sun-soaked back scars, his aunt consoling him at daybreak, the promises he and Hughes made under the guise of family ramblings through the phone. Roy tried to think of the things that reminded him of Riza: the quiet, the scent of rain, the feel of her heart against his chest. But no.

His body went rigid in her embrace, as if she was the only one who could keep him together. Because Roy was about to explode, and the aftermath was going to hurt. Like Ishval, the nightmares, the devastating realization that his friend was now buried into the ground, six-feet-under. Because he was too late.

"It wasn't your fault, Roy."

Roy pressed his face more into her shirt, his breathing heavy, ragged against the fabric. Riza cradled him still, voice present through the pounding in his ears, the ceaseless rain against his windows.

"I know that I don't share the same intimacy and tribulations you two had, but you don't have to suffer through this alone. It doesn't have to hurt."

_How funny it is...to know he's about to break because of her._

“Thank you,” he whimpered

Riza held him tighter. He was cracking inside, chipping at the exterior of his chest. His breath grew more ragged, and at that moment, his thoughts clicked. She wasn't going to let go. She wasn’t going to leave him. Why was he surprised? Why did it pain him to know that she knew? Because to tell her out loud would scare him away, and every part of him adored Riza Lizabette Hawkeye. He adored that she knew. He adored her stubbornness to comply, tight principles, observance of every single thing; that she displayed her anxieties in return when she was bloodshot and miserable, ready to follow him from Central to East City to hell and back. Because she made it easier to cry, easier to live through.

"I love you too."

For all that he was — an Amestrian, a weapon, an ambitious politician — he was only just a man. A man who loved too much for his own good and sobbed his heart out to prove it so. His voice hitched. His arms trembled. His eyes blurred him to hell. Because Roy Mustang was human. He winced and wheezed and mourned just to prove this fact. And when his face ached from tears, throat abused in the aftermath, Riza pressed her face to his shoulder, holding him tightly in the dark.


End file.
